a sum of small things | camren (au)

the second year | january - march

A/N: warning: intense internalized homophobia at the end of this chapter.

:::

She's the lead in your favorite ballet; the virgin who danced herself to death in order for the spring to begin. Le Sacre du Printemps is the wildest thing you know. There are no birds singing in this music, no soft winds blowing around meadows, no gurgling streams in the imagined spring within the walls of the London Royal Opera House.

This is the rawness of human passion, the stretch of impulse, the wry fight of growth and expansion, panicked fear within the very cells of life. It's a scandal. It's a riot. It's the closest thing to your heart.

The closest thing to your heart - and Camila dances it, brings it to life.

:::

january

:::

Lucy kisses you on New Year's Eve.

She's drunk on cheap tequila shots that older guys in the Spanish bar have been gladly handing her in the past two hours, and about a minute after midnight, she stumbles off the bar and wraps her arms around your neck and kisses you. It lasts for all of three seconds - the taste of liquor stronger than anything else, even stronger than the panic you feel at the fact that you're in public - and then she falls against you and giggles in your neck.

"You're so pretty, Lo," she says, a little slurred, "I just want to kiss you sometimes."

For some ridiculous reason, the most socially inept part of you decides that this is the right moment to say it.

"I've slept with Camila."

Lucy stumbles into you. "You what?"

Your head is spinning on one mojito too many. Someone is loudly singing Hips Don't Lie right next to you. You've got Lucy's arms around your neck and you're blushing harder than you've ever blushed in your entire life at the thought of Camila in your bed, soft under your body, kissing up your neck, fingers dancing between your legs-

Lucy's eyebrows shoot up at the expression on your face. "Are you fucking serious?"

The alcohol is pushing you past your inhibitions, so you nod, biting your lip. Her eyes go wide in excitement and then she squeals so loudly that everyone in the entire bar turns to look at you, right before she grabs your face between her hands and kisses you again.

"Oh - fuck," she slurs into your mouth, breaking away quicker than you could have pushed her off you if you'd tried, "Fuck. I'm sorry. I can't kiss you. You have a girlfriend now!"

What the fuck.

Your stomach clenches hard and before you can stop yourself you lash out, "Fuck, Lucy, no. I don't have a girlfriend. How many fucking times do I need to tell you - I'm not gay."

The excitement fades from Lucy's eyes and she stares at you, slight frown in her eyebrows, the alcohol slowing her reaction, making it impossible for you not to notice the shift - the way she bites her lip, the way she parts her mouth, looks like she wants to tell you something, but then seems to decide against it.

You wipe your lips with the back of your hand, Lucy's lipstick leaving stains on your skin that sting like the stress in your veins, the anxiety in your stomach.

Fucking hell.

She better make sure that none of your other friends go talk around about her kissing you like that in the middle of a bar.

(New Year - same old story.)

//

You never really fight with Lucy, so it takes you a little while to notice that something is even off between the two of you. With your hangovers clouding your mind, you spend the first day of January lying on the couch at Lucy's parents' place, watching reruns of Sean's season of The Bachelor, drinking smoothies and not talking much.